“I thought you called a squad meeting in an hour about Krusty the Corpse.”
And then he added solemnly, “May he rest in peace.”
Heat drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel, once again feeling the conflict
of the daily homicide grind. She did some quick calculations. “We’ll tell him it
has to be a quick bite.”
“OK,” said Rook with a side glance at the crime scene. “But no pizza. Just sayin
’.”
Since Heat and Rook didn’t have time to be trapped in a restaurant for two hours of
small talk and dessert-tray recitations, Joe Flynn had arranged for a deli buffet in
the conference room of Quantum Recovery, his elite investigation service
headquartered atop the exclusive Sole Building. He had brought in a charcuterie
platter from Citarella stacked with Parma ham, roast beef, Jarlsberg, Muenster, as
well as rustic mustards and herbed mayo. They declined the microbrews poking out of
tubs of shaved ice and opted for the Saratoga springwater, which their host poured
for them.
“You’ve come a long way from your roots, Joe,” said Rook, who munched a
cornichon, standing at the huge window looking out over Midtown Manhattan.
“You mean from staking out adulterers at hot sheet motels for a three-hundred-
dollar per diem?” He joined Rook and admired the spring day with him. “I’d say
fine art recovery has made life a little easier. Plus I don’t feel like I need a
shower after I cash the check.”
Before Joe Flynn climbed to elite ranks and the express elevators that came with
them, Nikki’s mom had been the subject of one of his adultery investigations—
commissioned by Nikki’s dad. Worried about Cynthia Heat’s increasingly secretive
life, her husband hired Flynn in 1999 because he suspected his wife was having an
affair. Flynn never found evidence of infidelity, but he did have stakeout
photographs of Nikki’s mom which could be useful now in her search for Tyler Wynn.
Just as Nikki sidled up beside them, unable to resist the view of the Empire State
Building and, in the distance, between skyscrapers, a sliver of Staten Island, Rook
got a cell phone call and excused himself to take it. As soon as the door closed,
Joe Flynn said, “Lucky man.” Nikki turned to find him staring at her like a
beaming hopeful on Antiques Roadshow awaiting the appraiser’s verdict. Nikki wished
her phone would ring, too. Instead she switched topics.
“I appreciate you digging for those photos.”
“Oh, right.” Flynn produced a thumb drive from his pocket and rolled it on the
fingers of one hand, not teasing but not yet giving it to her, either. “I looked
for the man and woman whose pics you texted me last week,” he said, referring to
the images she’d sent of Wynn and his accomplice, Salena Kaye. “Didn’t see them
in here.” And then he grinned at her again, adding, “Your mother was a beautiful
woman.”
“She was.”
“Just like her daughter.”
“Thank you,” she said as neutrally as possible.
He finally read the signs and handed over the memory key. “May I ask who they are?
The pair you’re looking for?”
“Sorry, I’d like to, but it’s a confidential police matter.”
“Can’t blame me for asking. Curiosity comes with the job description, right? Can’
t switch it off.”
Oh, did Nikki hear that.
Heat hoped to find more in those photos than something to spark leads on Tyler Wynn
and Salena Kaye. She also sought a clue to solve her big secret.